440. EXEGI MONUMENTUM{*}

«No hands have wrought my monument; no weeds will hide nation's footpath to its site. Tsar Alexander's column it exceeds    in splendid insubmissive height. «Not all of me is dust. Within my song, safe from the worm, my spirit will survive, and my sublunar fame will dwell as long    as there is one last bard alive. «Throughout great Rus' my echoes will extend, and all will name me, all tongues in her use: the Slavs' proud heir, the Finn, the Kalmuk, friend    of steppes, the yet untamed Tunguz. «And to the people long shall I be dear because kind feelings did my lyre extoll, invoking freedom in an age of fear,    and mercy for the broken soul». Obey thy God, and never mind, О Muse, the laurels or the stings: make it thy rule to be unstirred by praise as by abuse,    and do not contradict the fool. <1944>

441. THE UPAS TREE{*}

Deep in the desert's misery, far in the fury of the sand, there stands the awesome Upas Tree lone watchman of a lifeless land. The wilderness, a world of thirst, in wroth engendered it and filled its every root, every accursed grey leafstalk with a sap that killed. Dissolving on the midday sun the poison oozes through its bark, and freezing when the day is done gleams thick and gem-like in the dark. No bird flies near, no tiger creeps; alone the whirlwind, wild and black, assails the tree of death and sweeps away with death upon its back. And though some roving cloud may stain with glancing drops those leaden leaves, the dripping of a poisoned rain is all the burning sand receives. But man sent man with one proud look towards the tree, and he was gone, the humble one, and there he took the poison and returned at dawn. He brought the deadly gum; with it he brought some leaves, a withered bough, While rivulets of icy sweat ran slowly down his livid brow. He came, he fell upon a mat, and reaping a poor slave's reward, died near the painted hut where sat his now unconquerable lord. The king, he soared his arrows true in poison, and beyond the plains dispatched those messengers and slew his neighbors in their own domains. <1944>

442. A SCENE FROM «THE COVETOUS KNIGHT»{*}

SCENE 2. A CELLAR. THE BARON, ALONE. The Baron Just as a mad young fellow frets awaiting his rendez-vous with some evasive harlot, or with the goose seduced by him, thus I have dreamt all day of coming down at last in vaulted dimness to my secret chests. The day was good: this evening I can add to coffer six (which still is not quite sated) some recently collected gold: a fistful, a trifle, you might say, but thus my treasure a trifle is increased. There is some story about a Prince who bade his warriors bring a handful each of earth, which formed a hillock which swelled into a mountain, and the Prince from this proud height could merrily survey the dale white-dotted with his tented army, the many sails that sped upon the sea. So bit by bit I have been bringing here my customary tithe into this vault, and heaped my hill, and from its eminence I now survey my vassaldom at leisure. And who is not my vassal? Like some daemon from here in private I can rule the world; let me just wish — and there will rise a palace; amid the marvels of my terraced lawns a swarm of Nymphs will airily assemble; the sacred Nine will come with mask or lute; unshackled Genius labor as my bondsman, and noble merit, and the sleepless drudge wait with humility till I reward them. I'll whistle, and behold: low-bending, cringing, in creeps Assassination, blood-bespattered, and while it licks my hands it will be watching my eyes to read in them the master's order. All is to me subjected, I to naught. I am above desiring; I am tranquil: I know my domination, and this knowledge I deem sufficient. (Looks into his money-bag)                   It may seem a little, but what incalculable human cares, deceptions, tears, entreaties, imprecations, have weighty representatives here seated! Where was that old doubloon?.. Here 'tis. This evening a widow paid it me — though only after she'd stood, with her three children, many hours under my window, on her knees and wailing. It rained, and ceased to rain, and rained again: the shamming creature never budged. I might have sent her away, but a faint something told me that she had brought the sum her husband owed and would not care to be in jail next day. And this one? this was brought me by Thibault: whom did he get it from, the fox, the loafer? Stole it, I wager; or perhaps… somewhere, at nightfall, on the highway, in a coppice — Ah, yes! if all the tears, and blood and sweat, that have been shed for what is in my keeping, out of deep earth might suddenly gust forth we'd have a second flood, — and with a splutter I'd perish in my trusty vaults.                                        And now — (He is about to unlock number six) Strange — every time I want to open one of my good chests, I feel all hot and shaky: not fear (oh, no! whom should I fear? I have my gallant sword: one metal guards the other and answers for it), but a heart-invading mysteriously enveloping oppression… Physicians claim that there exist queer people who find in homicide a kind of pleasure; when I insert and turn the key, my feelings are similar, I fancy, to what they must feel when butchering their victims: pleasure and terror mingled (Unlocks)                       This is lovely, lovely… (Pours in his gold) Go home, you've had your fill of worldly frisking and served your time with human needs and passions. Here you will sleep the sleep of peace and power, as gods do sleep in Heaven's dreamy depth. To-night I wish to have a feast in secret: — a candle bright in front of every chest, and all of them wide-open, and myself with eyes aglow amid their brimming glory. (Lights candles and proceeds to unlock the chests) Now I am king! What an enchanting shine! A mighty realm has now become my manor; here is my bliss, my blazon, and my banner! Now I am king! — But who will next enjoy this bounty when I die? My heir will get it! A wastrel, a disreputable boy, by ribald fellow-revellers abetted! With my last sigh, him, him! this vault will hear come stamping down into its gentle silence, with crowds of fawning friends, rapacious courtiers; and having plucked the keys from my dead fist he will unlock chest after chest with glee, and all the treasures of my life will stream through all the holes of tattered satin pockets. Thus will a sot destroy these holy vessels, thus mud will drink an oil for kingly brows, thus he will spend — And by what right, I ask you? Did I perchance acquire all this for nothing? Or with the ease of a light-hearted gambler that rattles dice and grabs his growing winnings? Who knows how many bitter limitations, what bursting passions curbed, what inner gloom, what crowded days and hollow nights — my wealth has cost me? Or perhaps my son will say that with a hoary moss my heart is smothered, that I have had no longings, and what's more, that conscience never bit me? Grizzly conscience! the sharp-clawed beast that scrapes in bosoms; conscience, the sudden guest, the bore that does the talking, the brutish money-lender; worst of witches, that makes the moon grow dark, and then the grave-stones move restlessly, and send their dead to haunt us! Nay, suffer first and wince thy way to riches, then we shall see how readily my rascal will toss to winds what his heart-blood has bought. Oh, that I might conceal this vaulted chamber from sinful eyes! oh, that I might abandon my grave and, as a watchful ghost, come hither to sit upon my chests, and from the quick protect my treasures as I do at present! <25 мая 1941> вернутьсявернутьсявернуться